The Painting That Screamed

The Painting That Screamed

The canvas hung quietly,

its colors curling like smoke,

and I heard a whisper

that bled through every brushstroke.

The reds twisted violently,

like blood pressed into linen,

and the shadows leaned closer,

pressing secrets against my chest.

I touched the frame,

and it vibrated softly,

as if the painted figures

were breathing beneath the surface.

A face emerged slowly,

its eyes hollow and hungry,

following me through

the dim light of the gallery.

The paint shifted quietly,

folding space into shapes

that made the floor tremble

and the walls lean closer.

Even the air quivered,

thick with sighs,

and I understood

the art had remembered me.

I stepped back, trembling,

but the scream remained,

folded quietly into color,

pressing its voice against my chest.

When I left,

the painting glimmered faintly,

as if waiting

for the next soul to touch it.